


The Strongest Thing You've Got

by Dawnshadow



Series: Two Scions Walk Into a Bar.... [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: And To Stop Blaming Himself, And a Hug, Friendship, Gen, No Romance, Post-Possession, Thancred Needs A Therapist, The Tags Are Honest This Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 12:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20096926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnshadow/pseuds/Dawnshadow
Summary: In the wake of Ultima, Urianger hears that Thancred is back on his feet and resolves to offer what comfort he can. Naturally—and much to his concern—he finds the man at the bar. How can one find words to ease the burden of having undergone such an ordeal?





	The Strongest Thing You've Got

"I swear to the Twelve, if you try to tell me 'thou wast not at fault' I'm going to punch you. In the face." Thancred glared at Urianger as the scholar took a seat next to him at the bar, then drained his glass. Urianger wrinkled his nose; he was unsure what manner of beverage his friend had just consumed, but 'twas strong enough for the sharp scent of alcohol to travel half a yalm.

It was for good reason that 'twas often said that no plan survived contact with the opponent unscathed. No matter how precise one's calculations, one must always leave room for adaptation. (And were Urianger to be honest with himself, he would need admit that _convincing Thancred that he was not to blame for whatever had just gone wrong_ had never been a simple task, if even it was ever possible.)

"I've no doubt thou hath heard such words aplenty in the time since thine awakening. To repeat them would be redundant." He looked Thancred over. His physical wounds, taken in the process of removing the accursed crystal from him, had been well-mended, but 'twere deeper wounds still that neither medicine nor magic could rectify. "But thou ought not to be drinking alone. And I am capable of being a fine listener, should I choose to be."

"I do not wish to speak of it. Or think about it." Thancred looked at the empty glass, shuddering as for a moment his mind went somewhere far from here and now, then looked for the bartender. Urianger caught the man's eye before Thancred managed to find him and shook his head. He'd had enough for now.

"Then we shall speak of something else. Hath thou encountered any fine ladies, of late?"

Thancred's response was bitter. "I'm scarce out of bed, and now you wish me to get right back into it? And usually you _complain_ about my efforts."

'Twas unusual to see Thancred with his mask off—the metaphorical one, that of the jovial womanizer, that was. Perhaps a better metaphor for his demeanor would be needed in the future, recent circumstances taken under consideration. With that said, it yet boded poorly. "It is… normally entertaining to make jest of thine incessant efforts. But thou art correct, 'tis an insensitive question to ask of thee in thine present state. What of fresh air? Thou hath surely left the Waking Sands, for sun if nothing else."

"I have." He looked at the empty glass again, and tried to signal the bartender, who found himself suddenly distracted. "Even took a trip by atheryte earlier today." He rubbed a hand over his eyes, took a deep, shaking, unsteady breath. "'Twas necessary." His gaze was yet fixed on empty glass, or perhaps somewhere beyond it. This was clearly not diverting Thancred's mind from thoughts of his ordeal, as Urianger had hoped.

"…I wish I knew the words to comfort thee," he murmured, after a silence.

"There are things that, once broken, cannot be mended," Thancred responded, and Urianger knew from the way he said it that these thoughts were long familiar to him. "Mistakes one _cannot_ unmake or atone for."

"'Tis true." Urianger hesitated, then rested a hand on Thancred's back, between his shoulders. Thancred tensed at the unexpected touch, then relaxed. "Thou wilt ever bear scars of the spirit from thine trial. But healing will come."

"And those of our order who now sleep eternal before the Church of Saint Adama Landama?" Urianger didn't need Thancred to give voice the rest of his thoughts to know them. He remembered well how flawlessly the Ascian had imitated Thancred, even whilst mocking their ignorance of their friend's true condition to the point of wearing the crystal that allowed his influence openly. Thancred's knowledge, his experiences, his memory—all had clearly been as an open book to the overlord. And it had been the overlord who had chosen to betray them.

"Thou must need live for them. Mourn them. Avenge them. It does them no good to wallow in guilt over actions not born of thine own will."

"My guilt is not over his actions, but my _weakness._ My _failure._" Thancred's voice was low and heavy, the rumble of thunder presaging a storm. "I knew the nature of Ascians as spiritual beings. If only I would have had the presence of mind to investigate the crystal before I touched it. Or the strength to resist..." He shivered under Urianger's hand and wiped at his eyes. "_I had neither_."

Urianger shook his head. "'Twas no mistake that thou didst not recognize it as such. Until the overlord revealed thy fate, our every theory posited Crystals of Darkness to be much larger." He held his hands apart, demonstrating, then rested one on Thancred's back again, in what he hoped to be a reassuring manner. "That one could take the form of a seemingly innocuous trinket was a revelation to all of us. "

Thancred shook his head, wordlessly. He had folded in on himself.

"But that does not mean it does not hurt thee gravely to have been the first to discover that such was true." 

Thancred nodded.

"Here." Urianger stood, then gently offered Thancred an arm, helping him stand. He wobbled, leaning heavily on Urianger. "Thine circumstances demand comforts that are not to be found in a glass. Come with me." And Thancred did not resist. Urianger guided him back to his quarters. And when the storm came he stayed with Thancred—held him, offered what ease he could, and prayed that his presence was enough, for his words had already failed.

Urianger's quarters _smelled_ comforting. The scent of old paper combined with the lingering, smoky perfume of incense long burnt to cinder and ash. This wasn't a bed Thancred had ever expected to find himself in—drunk or sober. He heard Urianger pull up a chair and looked up at him, trying to get his eyes to focus.

"How dost thou feel?" He smoothed the blankets over Thancred, then adjusted the lanterns in the room, dimming all but the one behind his chair before he sat.

"Like a cup that's been poured out." And he did. The sorrow and pain had overflowed, leaving him drained and exhausted and dizzy. Or perhaps it was the alcohol that had done that. It was hard to tell, sometimes.

"'Tis all right. It was something thou didst need." Thancred heard the soft crackle of an old binding opening, the soft brush of fingers over paper. "Close thine eyes, and I shall share this treasure with thee."

Thancred did, and listened to Urianger's low, rich voice as he started to read. He recognized it-- Sharlayan poetry, the sort that Urianger drew his every inspiration from. And as Urianger read the words painted wonders of eras lost, dream-like visions of what once was and what one day might yet be. Thancred knew not at what point he slipped into sleep, but for once the nightmares did not follow.


End file.
